The Flower of my Subconscious
Mather Schneider
She’s twenty two though she looks sixteen and she hails
from Nicaragua although her family moved here when she was
seven and now she’s a student aide and the library and for
some reason she comes up and talks to me which naturally causes
me a single lonely man for thirty three to fall in love with her and she
tells me she still lives with her parents and her
mother still tells her what cloths she can and
can’t wear and she still has a curfew and she isn’t
allowed to go to a “boy’s” house alone and I’d bet me
left nut she’s still a virgin and I’m sitting here
thinking jesus by twenty two I had been living away
from my parents for four years and had had two
dozen jobs and sexual intercourse about a thousand time and
I understood they were from Nicaragua and her parents were a little
old fashioned but shit they has been living in
this country for fifteen years and it seemed to me they
were doing her a disservice by sheltering her so and I honestly
can say I have never met a young person so non-
rebellious so happy to be oppressed so unashamed to be
telling me about these rules without a
thought in her head of breaking them ever and all she can say is
she would like to have a car which is a
small start I guess but with that innocence of mind comes a
body to stop a Peterbuilt truck and big brown eyes that could
make the pope kick a hole in a stained glass window and I found myself
thinking well maybe in their country it is appropriate for a girl’s husband to be
ten years older than her of course such tradition usually depends
upon the older man having money and security which of course I
don’t but maybe I could start living the clean life and graduate
from college and get a real job and take care of this
woman this prize this treasure this trophy this female child and teach
her how to please me sexually and know that no stronger
loyalty exists outside of the canine family and maybe I could have
kids with her and a house and three square
hispanic meals a day and so in order not to go crazy I
go home that day after she talks to me and I write a poem
about her and the next day I give it to her
all the passion she stirred in me hoping the words
will make her fall down on the floor and spread her legs and of
course she takes the poem and reads it off in
some corner somewhere and in a result that is I fear
the flower of my subconscious she
never talks to me again
